


Wrought

by Tehri



Series: Monster [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gold Sickness, Hallucinations, Hearing Voices, M/M, Mental Illness, Mental Instability, Thorin Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 00:43:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6400840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tehri/pseuds/Tehri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Though dead and passed into the Halls of Mahal, Thorin does not find peace. His past weighs too heavily on his shoulders, and some things simply do not release him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrought

The halls of his fathers were meant to bring him peace; he had hoped, he had believed so fiercely that once he arrived there he would no longer have reason to fear. He had lived his life in the hopes of finding rest one day, of finding joy once he was reunited with those he had lost.

“The only ill-will to be found here is that which you bring yourself,” the grey wizard had told him once, before they entered the sheltered valley of Rivendell.

Thorin found himself pondering the words more often once he had passed into the halls of Mahal; they rang true even here. Once he had felt the need to tell Gandalf that he was wrong – the elves must have harboured some ill-will towards the dwarves, or they would not have been mocked. Now, there was no one to mock him.

Wherever he went in the halls, he was greeted with kind words. A few times he had been dragged into fights with dwarves who had lost their lives in that last battle, and their anger was slow to diminish though he took his time to explain to them that he had never intended for anything to go so badly. But his family, his dearest family, they greeted him with kindness and with joy – they told him that they were glad to see him once more, that he would now be allowed to rest and heal.

At first he believed that none of them truly knew that he was still in pain. A few words from his grandfather served to dispel that notion.

“Do not dwell on that which you cannot change, sigindashat,” Thrór said to him. “You have done your part, and all you can do is try to live with what you’ve done.”

“And what if I cannot, sigin’adad?” Thorin asked him. “What if all I’ve done weighs too heavily on my heart?”

Thrór gazed at him, and for the first time in his life, Thorin saw sadness and regret in his grandfather’s grey eyes.

“Then you try harder,” he answered, clamping one heavy hand down on his grandson’s shoulder. “Lest you allow it to consume you.” He gave the younger dwarf a searching look before he spoke again: “You are more than your mistakes, Thorin. You are more than the decisions you made under the sway of an illness.”

 

He was afraid to sleep. While his mother and father urged him to find rest, he dreaded the hours his body needed to recover. In his dreams, it wasn’t over. In his dreams, he was far away, and he was not always himself.

More often than not, he dreamt of gold and dragon-fire. He’d see himself, clad in the golden armour of Thrór and the crown of Erebor, standing atop a massive mound of gold. He’d hear the voices of his friends, cheering him on and praising him. But once he looked down, far below he would see their bodies, separated from their heads, and rivers of blood. He’d turn away to see himself reflected in the gold, and he would see eyes with fire in their depths, sharp fangs and enormous wings.

Sleep was not a welcome respite for Thorin. He did all he could to stay awake, and he would wander about until his body could handle no more. More than once, his brother Frerin had to help him back to his bed, all the while under protests and insistence that no, he did not need or want to sleep.

The nights he dreamt of Bilbo were the worst. So much had been left unsaid between them, and so much had never been outright forgiven. It grieved Thorin to think that while he had asked to part in friendship from the hobbit, he had not thought to ask for forgiveness for his actions. It grieved him – but he could not find it in his mind that he should be forgiven.

 

This night was no different.

He was back in Erebor. When searching his thoughts, he believed he could recall having spent months on a sickbed, healing from injuries sustained during the Battle of Five Armies. He could recall the Mountain being rebuilt, and he could recall being crowned at last. Most of all, he recalled having the hobbit by his side.

He laid in the warm and comfortable bed in his own chambers, resting after a long day. The only light in the room came from the failing embers on the hearth, and he had no wish to leave his bed to stoke the fire. He had earned his rest, earned a few hours respite before he would need to face the court again.

“You shouldn’t push yourself so.” Thorin turned his head at the sound of the familiar voice, and smiled as he saw Bilbo approaching the bed. “You’ll only drive yourself to exhaustion.”

“A king has many duties,” Thorin answered. “And you, master burglar, are in the king’s chambers.”

“It would appear so, yes.” Bilbo smiled at him. “It would also seem that the king doesn’t mind.”

“You know I don’t mind.” Thorin held out one hand to the hobbit, who took it calmly. “Come to bed, amrâlimê. Stay with me tonight.”

Bilbo chuckled softly and climbed onto the bed, releasing the dwarf’s hand and wrapping his arms around his neck.

“Perhaps I might be able to help you relax?” he suggested, leaning close to press soft kisses against the dwarf’s cheek and neck. “Help you relieve some stress?”

Thorin hummed softly and trailed his fingers through the hobbit’s hair. He was not precisely going to protest; in fact, they both deserved a small break, and the opportunity to enjoy each other’s company. With one smooth movement, he wrapped his arms around the hobbit and lifted him onto his lap.

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” he chuckled. “I just might allow you to.”

And while Bilbo busied himself with planting gentle kisses along his dwarf’s jaw, said dwarf quickly unbuttoned the hobbit’s shirt. The buttons were small for his significantly larger hands, and though he moved swiftly he could only have achieved a faster result by ripping them all off. But Thorin had scarcely managed to push the shirt from his hobbit’s shoulders when a small line of red started to trickle down his chest.

Perhaps a small part of his mind knew what he would see; it felt as though dread itself placed a stone within his heart, stealing all joy that had previously been there.

He looked up, and had to force back a cry of dismay when he saw blood pouring from a wound across the hobbit’s neck and trickling from the corner of his mouth. But Bilbo did not look frightened. There was nothing but sadness in his eyes when he looked at the dwarf.

“I’m sorry, Thorin,” he said, the words coming out garbled as more blood spewed from his lips. “I’m sorry. Why would you do this to me? Did I do something wrong? Did I hurt you?”

Frozen in place, Thorin didn’t move to stop the hobbit from bleeding out. It was not until the hobbit lifted his hands and reached out to touch his face that he opened his mouth to scream, only to find himself sitting up in his bed, his skin damp with cold sweat and tears in his eyes, choking on the noise before it escaped him.

 

“Didn’t sleep much, did you?” Frerin asked, giving his elder brother’s shoulder a pat. “You look horrible.”

“It happens,” Thorin answered, however reluctantly. “You have your sleepless nights as well, nadad.”

“Perhaps I do,” the golden-haired younger dwarf answered, giving his brother a wide smile. “Though I doubt that I look half-dead, as you do, when it happens.”

Thorin wanted nothing more than to tell Frerin to shut up and go away; it would be easy to treat it as a normal sibling-scuffle. Things that happened. How many times hadn’t he told Dís to do so?

But the thought of his little sister felt almost as a blow to the gut. She was still there, still trying to work through what had happened, still struggling to pick up all the pieces left behind by her family. It didn’t feel fair to think of how often he had told her to shut up and go away, how often he had disregarded her advice and her kindness.

“Do you ever think of Dís?” he blurted out, wincing when he saw Frerin flinch as though struck at the words. “I… No, don’t answer that. Forgive me. I only…”

“You’ve been deep in thought lately,” Frerin muttered, taking a seat beside him. “No wonder you’ve been thinking of her.” He fell silent for a moment, seemingly gathering his wits before he spoke again: “Yes, I do think of her. Often. I never did have much to do here, after all, so I thought much of you and her. I wondered if you were alright. If you grieved. I wasn’t certain that Dís would even be old enough to understand what had really happened. No, don’t scoff! Thorin, I was barely old enough to understand that we were in a battle. I was barely old enough to be there at all. What else would you expect me to think of our little sister?”

“Dís did well,” Thorin murmured. “Considering the situation, she did admirably by our people.”

“I am not speaking of our people,” Frerin sighed. “I am speaking of you. Of our family.”

“She did well,” Thorin insisted, but turned his face away. “I, however, cannot make the same claim. I always needed advice, or I would be too hot-headed. She could barely leave me to my own devices.”

“That’s horse-shit, and you know it.”

The profanity caught Thorin off-guard. He blinked and looked back at his little brother, who grinned unrepentantly at him.

“Yes, nadad, I am more than old enough to use such language,” he laughed. Then his smile faded, and he grew serious once more. He reached out and placed one hand on his brother’s arm. “You, Thorin, were by far the best leader our people could have hoped for in those years. Don’t scowl at me. You did what was best for everyone, and you never treated anyone as insignificant. You were one of them, not somehow above everyone else. You took their counsel, you listened to them, and you did what you could to ensure that all their needs were met. What more could they have hoped for?”

“I left them a battlefield to clean up and a broken kingdom to repair,” Thorin snapped. “I failed them as soon as I sent word to Dáin to ask him for help. How many died because of my folly? Look at what I left for our cousin to deal with – a cursed treasure and an army of angry Men and Elves seeking reparations for what my greed caused!”

“You left them their homeland,” Frerin answered, keeping his voice calm and steady despite his brother’s anger. “You gave them their home back.”

“I gave them nothing but grief!”

For a long while, Frerin wouldn’t answer. He listened while Thorin went on about all that he had done wrong. But finally, the golden-haired dwarf rose again and gave his brother a sad look.

“One day you must accept that others do not see it as you do,” he said. “One day you must see that your people loved you. Your family loves you. You are not the abomination you believe you see in the mirror every morning.”

 

Abomination. The word rang more true than Frerin might’ve thought.

Abomination.

Once Thorin was alone in his chambers, he found himself staring into the small mirror that had been given to him by his mother when he arrived. He eyed himself critically, took notice of everything that he imagined had changed since he had left Ered Luin.

Somewhere in his hazy sleep-addled mind, he thought he could see a fire in his eyes that did not belong there. His teeth seemed sharper than they ought to be. His skin seemed to have taken on a scaly quality. The more he saw in his reflection, the more he felt the urge to throw the mirror away and never look into it again. But he found, to his dismay, that he couldn’t look away. Was this what others had seen in him when he was so desperate to find the Arkenstone? When he could think of nothing else than the treasure? Was this what Bilbo had seen when he had taken the decision to give the stone away?

“He didn’t betray me,” Thorin whispered to the empty room. “He could see what I had become. He made a difficult decision, and he made it alone. If he had told me… Mahal, if he had _told_ me… What would I have done?”

_And in what way were your companions, your friends and kin, any different than you?_

Thorin flinched. The voice sounded painfully real; it was eerily similar to his own, and it made him sick to hear it again. He’d heard it constantly when he had believed Erebor to be reclaimed, and when Bard and Thranduil had seemed like greedy thieves. He stared into the mirror, and his reflection smirked cruelly at him.

 _The Halfling would have given it all away_ , it said. _He never understood, did he? He never understood that your people starved and needed the gold._

“They didn’t,” Thorin gasped. “We could all manage without it.”

_But you couldn’t. You needed it, you were ever so desperate for it. ‘Not a single coin’, wasn’t that what you said? You would never part with it. And your pet Halfling’s actions led to your death. If he had only given you the stone, you might well have been alive._

Thorin tore his eyes away and threw the mirror across the room, noting with satisfaction that it shattered against the wall.

“That stone would have led to my ruin, whether he had given it to me or not,” he said, though his voice shook when he spoke. “He tried to save me. He tried to save all of us.”

 _Halflings are not heroes._ The voice would not be silent, though it soothed the dwarf’s mind a little to not see his own face speak the words. _They are farmers, gardeners, grocers. Bilbo Baggins is not different. He did what he thought would bring him back to his quiet little country as soon as possible. He never cared for any of your efforts. And to think you wanted him to stay! He would never have done so – he would have laughed in your face, and he would have left without a word. You are dead and gone, and you know that he must be safe at home once more. He probably did not even stay to mourn._

“He mourned!” Thorin rose and began to pace back and forth in the room, hoping somehow that the voice would have a body that would appear; it was easier to strangle it to silence than arguing with it. “He wept when we said farewell! He is not so heartless that he would… he would…”

_Would what? Not care?_

“He mourned. I know he mourned.”

_How do you know? You died. You weren’t there._

“He… I know he did! He… He loved…”

_Loved you? Loved your nephews? Or is this merely what you wish he might’ve felt?_

There was no one to strangle into silence than his own mind – and he had lost that fight before.

_No, he betrayed you. He accepted your trust, all the hopes you placed in him, and he burned them all in dragonfire. Had you tossed him off the wall as you were supposed to, it would have been too good of a death for him. He should have burned in Smaug’s fire long before then. You should have run him through when you saw he didn’t have the stone. You should have left him for dead before you left the Misty Mountains._

“Leave me in peace!”

The words left Thorin in a loud roar, and he slammed his fist against the wall; the pain made him wince, but he repeated the action again and again, relishing the silence it brought.

“It is better this way,” he said weakly to the empty room when he finally sank down on the floor, leaning heavily against the wall, and held his now injured hand close to his chest. “It is better that I am gone. He is safe now, and I can’t hurt him. I am in the halls of my fathers, and he is beyond my reach. I have an eternity to become a… a better, a stronger dwarf. I have an eternity to repent before I may be allowed to meet him again.” He smiled bitterly, barely noticing how wet his cheeks felt. “It is no different from when I lived. I lead my people to ruin, and I lead my nephews to their deaths. I took everything away from my sister, and I left nothing but grief for my cousins. It is better this way.”

He turned his gaze to the broken shards of the mirror beside him and saw his own face reflected in one of them again. And the reflection smiled, still with dragonfire in its eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> -Translations-  
> sigindashat - grandson  
> sigin'adad - grandfather  
> amrâlimê - my love  
> nadad - brother
> 
> Heavily inspired by the song "Wrought" by Peratus. Originally, I had about 24k words written for this fic, and I had managed to get stuck. I was entirely unable to figure out where to go with the story, as I had intended for it to have a happy ending. Sadly, I never reached anything of the sort. The story was left alone since august of 2015, and now during march (2016) I finally took the decision to rewrite it. It's considerably shorter, and the good feels just sort of disappeared, because I realised they wouldn't work.  
> Honestly, I'm a bit sad that I didn't save what I had before, because I actually sort of liked it. But it will never return, and I am the type who can never rewrite a story in the same spirit.


End file.
